


Watching The Watcher

by mansikka



Series: Too Far [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sick Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's stomach churned heavily, and he bit back the acidic bile pressing up against the back of his throat, determinedly gritting his jaw and trying to breathe through his mouth. The smell and the sight of what was before him made him grimace, and shake, and make all kinds of bargains with a god he'd never really had any faith in to begin with to just help.</p><p>Dean turned his head from side to side with uncertainty as he looked, and shuffled slightly on his knees, wincing as they bumped up against Cas' side where he knelt over and next to him.</p><p>And with much reluctance, he pressed the tip of his knife into where he'd pinched up the fabric of Cas' trenchcoat away from his skin, slicing it open above the wound, then below it, until he'd cleared a wide oval shape, revealing the paleness of Cas' back stark against the black of his oozing wound.</p><p>How many days? Dean thought to himself, grimacing and holding his breath again as he looked down at the wound.</p><p>How many days had Cas had this thing in his back? It had to have been days; mere hours wouldn't have left him looking quite so emancipated and drained of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching The Watcher

Dean's stomach churned heavily, and he bit back the acidic bile pressing up against the back of his throat, determinedly gritting his jaw and trying to breathe through his mouth. The smell and the sight of what was before him made him grimace, and shake, and make all kinds of bargains with a god he'd never really had any faith in to begin with to just  _ help _ .

Dean turned his head from side to side with uncertainty as he looked, and shuffled slightly on his knees, wincing as they bumped up against Cas' side where he knelt over and next to him.

And with much reluctance, he pressed the tip of his knife into where he'd pinched up the fabric of Cas' trenchcoat away from his skin, slicing it open above the wound, then below it, until he'd cleared a wide oval shape, revealing the paleness of Cas' back stark against the black of his oozing wound.

How many days? Dean thought to himself, grimacing and holding his breath again as he looked down at the wound.

How many days had Cas had this thing in his back? It had to have been days; mere hours wouldn't have left him looking quite so emancipated and drained of everything.

Had Cas purposely laid low until he had the strength to move himself? Why hadn't he attempted to remove the blade? Why was he so still, and silent, laid there like that?

What could Dean do to fix this?

Was any of it fixable?

What could do this to an angel and leave him unconscious?

Dean's questions seemed to churn up in time with his stomach, and he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, willing himself to keep it together.

With trembling hands, he inspected the wound as best he could, pressing in around the knife still protruding and debating whether or not to remove it. Gentle fingers met with fevered flesh; the heat against his fingerpads making Dean's brow furrow into a deep ridged frown.

There seemed to be nothing for it; the knife had to come out, of course it did. After another pause, Dean snagged his fingers around the handle, thumb pressed hard against the hilt, while his other hand splayed and braced against Cas' back, and he pulled.

The blade slid out easily, with an awful, slick sucking sound, and Dean slumped forward in relief when no blood – or anything else – poured out. But that fall forward brought him closer, and the smell made him retch all over again, kneeing his way awkwardly off the bed and running for the motel bathroom.

With hands wrapped knuckle white around the edge of the sink, Dean composed himself for a moment. Then, after rinsing his mouth out and sucking in a breath, he went back into the room.

Cas was still prone before him, and Dean felt helpless, but also relieved; both that Cas was finally,  _ finally _ there, and that at least until Cas woke up, he had a reprieve from having to find the right words to say out loud, to get across just how sorry he was for all he'd done.

Dean instantly berated himself for thinking that, lacing it with a cruel whisper of  _ what if he doesn't wake up _ that he tried, and failed to push away.

With one more glance over Cas, Dean grabbed his holdall and pulled out some basic supplies, and began the slow, arduous task of flushing out the wound, not knowing what else to do, or even if it would help.

When Sam returned to the motel room, it was to Dean with his sleeves rolled up passed his elbows and leaning over Cas with his nose wrinkled up, inspecting his back. Stunned for a moment, Sam then moved soundlessly to help; gathering up what seemed to be an endless stream of spoiled dressings and throwing them all in the trash can with disgust.

Sam picked up the knife that had been in Cas' back and studied the blade up close, grimacing at the smell and studying the stain there that appeared to Dean to be more olive green than black now that it had dried a little.

“So,” he tried, after several minutes of just watching Dean at work, unsure of if his help would be rejected or not.

“He just... winged in, passed out here. Not moved once. Not even flinched, not even when I pulled that thing out,” Dean told him with a deep sigh, glancing at the blade in Sam's hands. “Got a pulse,” he added, though it was lower and said more to himself than to Sam.

“That's... something,” Sam tried, coming to stand beside Dean and stare down with him. “Any idea what this stuff is?”

“None. Not seen it before. Gotta be powerful if it's done this to him though, right?”

Sam gave a nod as a response, because there wasn't much else that he could add. “And that smell?”

Dean winced visibly, shoulders dropping a touch. “It's... it's not so bad now.” He turned to glance at the window he'd thrown open, and his eyes momentarily skimmed over the bathroom door.

“I'll start looking,” Sam told him, and immediately moved to power up the laptop as Dean continued cleaning what seemed a never-ending amount of putrid mess from a still unmoving Cas. Despite Dean's initial relief that there was no sudden gush when he'd removed the blade, the wound still seeped.

Sam glanced over at Dean quickly as he waited for his browser to load, taking in that worried set to his jaw that he knew so well. “We'll figure it out,” Sam told him with as much certainty as he could manage to inject into his voice, waiting until he saw Dean give the tiniest of nods back, then turned back to the screen.

***

“Nothing at all?”

Dean's question was riddled with dismay, and Sam felt nothing but guilt. He'd been staring at the screen so long that there was a dull pain behind his eyes that ringed his vision red, and more than once he'd caught himself falling asleep sat upright against his rickety headboard.

“Nothing. Nothing fitting the description of that stuff. I've looked up everything I can think of. Angel kryptonite-”

“Sam,” Dean said with a tone suggesting he did not approve of Sam's choice of language at all.

“Hey. If it was kryptonite, it'd be easy, right? We'd just have to get it away from him. But... I've looked up... spells. Enchantments. Poisons that would make an angel weak. I... I can't find anything,” he settled for, dejectedly.

“Then. I guess we just... I guess we just treat it like a regular wound. Hope he wakes up.” Dean said, looking down at Cas doubtfully.

Sam looked Dean over as he stood uncertainly beside the bed. Worry, fatigue, guilt; all kinds of emotions washed over Dean's face as he stared down at Cas, as though he was willing him to wake through sheer will.

Sam continued watching as Dean's jaw set and he nodded to himself, then glanced around the room for a spare blanket, and covered Cas over as best he could. In a move that once would have had Sam's eyebrows reaching for the ceiling and teasing urge to spill from his lips, Dean walked slowly around to the free side of the bed, and gently laid down next to Cas, eyes on him the entire time.

“Get some sleep, Sammy,” Dean said softly, leaving Sam to wonder if Dean himself would get any sleep at all.

***

Another day followed, with Dean watching over Cas, washing his wound, reapplying his dressings. One more day when Cas didn't even stir, and the bags under Dean's eyes grew thicker and heavier. One more day, when Sam pushed food on Dean that he barely tasted, his eyes permanently fixed on the side of Cas' face where he continued to sleep that endless sleep.

Sam thought he could read everything Dean was thinking just from studying his expression. There was regret that it had come to this for Cas to return to them. It was fear that this was a thing that couldn't be mended. And an ache for having Cas so close but not being able to have him hear all the words he'd obviously been rehearsing whilst he'd begged him to come back.

Sam even caught Dean once, stroking his fingers over the back of Cas' hand where it was tucked half under Cas' side from how he had fallen, as though he'd tried to brace himself, letting them linger there for a moment before trailing up the length of his arm to softly grip around his shoulder, then dropping his hand in defeat.

Sam watched the watcher, knowing all they could do was wait.

***

“Maybe we should try and turn him over. Or at least, on his side at bit. Get some water in him or... get him into something clean to wear or... something?”

Yet another day of nothing happening found Dean anxiously pacing, desperate to see any kind of change but finding none.

“He's healing,” Dean added, stopping for a moment to peer down at the wound as though he needed to confirm what he was saying was true. “But. I don't know. Something?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders not knowing what was for the best. “Guess it couldn't hurt,”

Between them they shifted the dead-weight that was Cas so that he was propped up against Sam's shoulder. Dean's face took on an expression that Sam couldn't read as he unknotted Cas' tie, pulled his shirt out from where it was creased into his pants, and slowly undid it all the way down.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched again. As Dean gently pushed back what was left of Cas' clothing down and off one arm, then wrapped his hand around the back of Cas' neck to pull him away from where he was resting up against Sam so that he could easier slide the material out from beneath him, and finally free his other arm as well.

“Cas,” Dean choked out softly, bringing his fingers to trace against the edge of Cas' visible ribs; although lean, Cas – or at least, his former vessel Jimmy – had never been so obviously thin.

“We gotta feed him up,” Dean mumbled, glancing up at Sam in pain.

“How? He's not even supposed to need food,” Sam asked lost for both what to say and a solution.

Dean ran an anxious hand through his hair and sucked in a shaky breath, pressing on as though he hadn't even heard Sam speaking. “Let's... I'm gonna try and get some water into him first. And if that works... I guess... energy drinks, or... I don't know. Some kind of liquid. But we've gotta do something, Sam, look at him,”

Sam heard the catch in Dean's voice again and felt his heart ache for him. But he twisted up on to his knees anyway, bracing his hands against Cas' shoulders and propping his head up against his chest as Dean softly angled his jaw so that he could trickle a little water into his mouth.

Dean's eyes dropped to Cas' throat, then back up to his face with a held breath, and closed in relief when he saw Cas swallow, though was still unmoving in every other way.

A couple more mouthfuls of water were managed under Dean's ever watchful stare, and they waited to see if Cas would show any signs of stirring at all that he'd now been moved.

When he didn't, Dean nodded to himself, silently walked over to his holdall and pulled out a long sleeved t-shirt, then proceeded to very carefully dress Cas in it, as Sam helped by keeping him propped up. They manoeuvred him to lay half on his side, still watching to see if there would be any kind of reaction to what they were doing at all, but there was none.

Again, Sam watched Dean's routine of settling down beside Cas for the night, saying nothing at all as Dean slowly laced his fingers through Cas' against the bed.

***

A jolt woke Dean the next morning, and he found himself disoriented, not knowing where it had come from. One minute he'd been nightmaring his way through fitful sleep, feeling like he was drowning. And the next, he was frantically awake, feeling as though he'd been shaken, and was missing something important.

A pair of blue eyes staring back at him had Dean pinned exactly where he was, not even able to breathe, as they flicked over his face, down to where Dean's hand still covered his, then back up again, with an expression that was nothing but cold.

  
  
  



End file.
